Miles of Red
by mirror2mirror
Summary: The humans believe that the continents and countries float on top of the earth, drifting closer, or further apart. This is one reason he prefers magic to science: it doesn’t hurt as much.


**Sabian,** 'cause this is Hetalia. I thought this would come out Norway-centered, but Arthur just flew from my fingers, and I went with it. Come to think of it, it wouldn't be that much different. just change the creatures some, and the name, and the eye color and people and... okay, that's pretty different.

**Author: **Sabian

**Title: **Miles of Red

**Rating: **G

**Characters/Pairings: **England's fairies, England. Implied England/Seychelles and implied England/America at the end

**Warning(s): **None. Well… angst? Fairy fluff?

**Word Count: **842

**Summary: **_The humans believe that the continents and countries float on top of the earth, drifting closer, or further apart. This is one reason he prefers magic to science: it doesn't hurt as much._

It is still early in the morning when Arthur wakes up. He swings his legs off the side of his bed, and then he puts on his slippers. His feet slide across the wooden floorboards as he makes his way across his bedroom floor. The curtains are drawn, despite him closing it the night before. There is nothing to suggest that this is out of the ordinary, except for the miles of red string lying uncoiled on the floor, the whinny of a unicorn as it drifts overhead, and the chitter of young fairies giggling over something or the other. The nation wipes his eyes groggily, and doesn't pay them any attention.

Well, that's until one of them- It's a short fairy, black hair and mischievous purplish-blue eyes, with dragonfly wings. Arthur's seen him around before- comes up to him, dragging a flower with it. It is a sweetly scented rose, beautiful red petals that look as if they were dripped in blood. He giggles, and hands Arthur the blossom, babbling in a language he cannot understand. With a small smile, Arthur takes it, minding the thorns, and waves the fairy on its way.

At least, it's supposed to disappear. It stubbornly remains, clinging to his hair. He frowns deeply, and shakes his head, trying to dislodge the fairy. "Get off, you tinkerbell," he mutters, raising an arm to try and pick the fairy off. "Get off!" The fairy just laughs and grabs on tighter.

"What are you laughing at?" Arthur asks, glaring at the chortling unicorn. It abruptly stops and backs away, remembering the last time Arthur adopted that tone of voice (his stomach was rolling for _weeks_). "That's right you overgrown pony. Back off." But his harsh words mean nothing when he steps up and pets the unicorn, running his hands through its soft mane. It seems to smile and leans in to his touch. Of course, that's when the fairies start getting jealous, and angrily demand to be given attention as well. He rolls his eyes as they flutter up to his head, half of them joining the other fairy already nesting down there and the other half buzzing in front of his face.

He laughs quietly, and smiles at them. The glitter around him from their wings glimmers like powdered glass in the early morning sun. And then the first fairy breaks away, headed for somewhere that Arthur cannot see. He smiles softly and turns his attention back to the others.

"Do you think I should tell him today?" he asks them. They stare at him uncomprehendingly; all they know are their petty gossips and parlor tricks and deception, they know nothing of _human_ concerns such as love of anxiety or fear of rejection. He doesn't blame them, but he cannot help but resent them at these times. He grips the rose in his right hand tighter, uncaring when the sharp thorns dig into his palm. It'll just make the rose redder anyway. There is no rose too red.

And then the first fairy returns, red string gripped in its tiny hands. It smiles up at him, childlike in its innocence, and flies around the rose stem. It ties the string into a pretty scarlet bow, like the ones that hold pretty little Seychelles's hair in place, sunlight making her tanned skin glow more than he does in his Britannia Angel form.

He doesn't really care what it is doing, until it somehow wrestles the flower from his hand and brings it up to the nation. It babbles in its language, and the other fairies seem to understand. They start laughing, toying with strands of his hair or the tails of his coat, but they don't offer any explanation for what is going on. A little hesitantly, Arthur takes the rose again. "Thank you," he offers weakly, an equally pathetic smile on his face. He does not know what is going on, and it unnerves him greatly.

He does not like not knowing. It is dangerous.

The sun's rays are still cool, the sky still gray. The breeze is cold, and the birds have not yet begun their singing. Arthur tips back his head, closes his eyes, and takes in a deep breath. He can smell the deep scent of love and passion and anger and hatred and metallic tinges like blood (he won't admit it, but he smells rain and salt and petrichor too). It is uncharacteristically silent in the room when he opens his eyes again, and manages to catch a glimpse of the rose slipping from his hands, petals smashing against the floor. The fairies watch with wide and cruelly blank eyes. The unicorn has slipped away, and when the Fair Folk realize that they will not find any entertainment here, they vanish. He is alone with the sound of the morning sun in his ears. The top is a lonely place to be.

The image of blue eyes crying blood comes to mind.

He knows where the salt is coming from. His hands sting.


End file.
